


You make it feel like Christmas

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: Narcos (TV), Pedro Pascal - Fandom
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Christmas Smut, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Sexual Content, season 3 Javier needs his own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: A soft, sweet, spicy Christmas visit to Javier's family home in Texas.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	You make it feel like Christmas

The jostle of Javier shifting in his seat beside you drags your attention from the pages of your book.

He’s arching his back, stretching broad shoulders that pull the fabric of his shirt into puckering wrinkles with the motion as he looks out the tiny window at the brilliant white clouds below. With a sigh, he slumps back into the narrow seat, hands flexing restlessly in his lap.

You reach for one of them, lacing your fingers with his. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” His thumb makes a reflexive stroke over the back of your hand. “I should have brought those files Stoddard put together before we left.”

“Javi, it’s Christmas vacation. You’re not supposed to be working.”

He tilts his head in concession. “How’s your book?”

“Forgettable.” You shrug, slipping it back into the carry-on bag by your feet. “Unlike you.”

That earns you a lopsided smile that brings his dimple out of hiding.

The near-brush of your lips with his is interrupted by a flight attendant with a brittle smile and a small plastic cup. “Your drink, sir.”

“Thanks,” he says, sitting up straighter to take it from her. She glides away down the aisle and he sips the drink, grimaces. “For what the tickets cost, you’d think they could serve better whiskey.”

You take the drink from his hand and try it, wincing as the harsh burn of the liquor stings your throat. “Well, we are a captive audience.”

Javier takes another stubborn swig. “Whoever said getting there is half the fun was full of shit.”

You can’t help but laugh at his grumbling. “You might want to practice watching your mouth, Agent Peña. There’ll be lots of little ears around at your dad’s house.”

“Don’t I know it. I hope you’re ready to be mobbed.”

“Beats drowning in paperwork and hearing again about the time Feistl almost got shot by the Jamaican,” you say mildly. “I think the bullet gets closer to his head every time he tells that story.”

He huffs out a laugh, dismissing the half-finished drink to a tray table. 

You can see the shift in his thoughts as his dark eyes roam over your face to settle on your mouth with a speculative gaze. The slow, unconscious tease of his tongue at his plush lower lip is hypnotic.

A lift of his chin and his eyes go half-lidded, sultry. “Come here.”

As always, you’re a moth to flame.

It’s a restrained kiss, just a soft, lazy press of his lips that toes the line of appropriateness in public, but it’s enough to spark a tendril of warmth that unfurls like an opening flower in your chest. 

Especially with the hitch in his breath when your fingertips wander to the firm muscle of his inner thigh.

Javier breaks the kiss with a knowing smirk, eyes molten with the unspoken promise of later, and a grin pulls at your lips.

“I guess the DEA’s golden boy can’t really risk being caught with his girlfriend in an airplane bathroom, huh?”

“Stechner would have a fu-- a _freaking_ field day,” he amends at the teasing quirk of your brows. With a kiss to your temple, he leans back in his seat again, checking his watch. 

You tuck your feet underneath you, turn sideways in your seat to smile at him. “I’m going to make it my mission to have you so relaxed by the end of the week you’ve forgotten Stechner exists.”

He laughs, reaching for his jacket to rummage for his pack of nicotine gum. “Do your worst, _querida._ ”

***

Chucho Peña’s barn is as expansive as his personality, and it’s been transformed into a festive haven for Christmas Eve. Lights and decorations dress up the plain space, Javier’s aunts preside over tables groaning with food, and the music that blares through speakers blends with the buzz of conversation and children’s laughter. You sit at a table with Javier, catching your breath after a round of mingling and introductions and watching the handful of revelers who’ve taken to the impromptu dance floor in the center of the barn.

It’s...peaceful. Despite the whirl of activity around you, you’re more relaxed than you’ve been in ages, and Javier hasn’t heard the name “Escobar” all night. He’s still Laredo’s hero and probably always will be, but the novelty has lost enough of its shine that people are beginning to treat him like the boy who grew up there instead of the man who came back.

“You get enough to eat?” Javier passes you his bottle of beer. “They’re bringing out another round of pies.”

You take a sip, resisting the urge to press the dewy bottle against your warm cheek. “I’ve been eating since we got here. Nobody could go hungry with your family.”

“Wait ‘til you see the spread for lunch tomorrow,” he says, with a wry grin.

A strong hand rests on your shoulder and you turn to find your host smiling down at you, white cowboy hat like a halo in the glow of the colorful fairy lights all around. 

“You two having a good time?”

“Yeah, Pops.” Javier pushes a chair out beside him. “Join us.”

Chucho shakes his head, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Came to ask the lady for a dance.”

His fatherly kindness warms you, as it has from the moment you arrived in Texas. Javier is so different from his father in so many ways, and yet you can see Chucho’s shadow in his unguarded moments of selflessness and generosity.

Handing Javier his beer back, you get to your feet with a smile. “I’d love to.” 

Chucho is a patient partner, waving off your apologies when you step on his toes and finally settling into a sedate sway when your efforts to keep up with the rest of the clan prove hopeless.

Between snippets of conversation, you catch a glimpse of Javier back at the table. He’s gained new company in your absence.

Four-year-old Emilia, the daughter of a cousin whose name escapes you now, has made herself at home, elbows resting on Javier’s knees and a bedraggled Barbie doll trailing from one hand while she regales him with animated chatter.

Your heart swells at the picture. Javier’s eyebrows leap at something the little girl says, punctuated with a wave of the doll. His dimple makes an appearance even as his jaw steadily works his gum -- because, bless him, he really is trying to quit -- and he chucks her under the chin with amusement crinkling his eyes.

“He’s happy with you.” Chucho’s voice breaks into your thoughts, and you find him following your gaze. “More than I’ve ever seen him.”

“He deserves to be happy. Convincing him of that is a work in progress,” you admit.

“Sometimes I worry about him...worry he won’t leave Colombia with his soul,” he confesses, keen eyes meeting yours. “But seeing him with you gives me hope. You keep taking good care of him.”

“I will. I promise.” You squeeze his hand. “Thank you for having me here for Christmas, Chucho. You’ve made me feel like family.”

His rugged face wrinkles with a smile. “I hope it’s the first of many Christmases, _mija._ You’re always welcome here.”

“Can I cut in?”

Javier’s voice materializes over your shoulder, husky and warm, sending a thrill down your spine. Your stomach fills with butterflies just like it did the first time you ever saw him, and you’re struck by how effortlessly handsome he is with the tension gone from his shoulders and his lush mouth softened by a smile.

With a pat of your cheek and a clap to Javier’s back, Chucho disappears in the direction of the pie table and you drift into Javier’s arms.

“Did you get to the embarrassing childhood stories?” 

“I did hear one about you and your cousins and a stolen pack of firecrackers.” You give him a teasing grin. “But I have to admit it’s hard to imagine you as a little kid. You seem like someone who just sprang into existence with a perma-frown and a nicotine problem.”

“Smartass.”

“You love it.”

He can’t stifle a smile when he leans in to kiss you, because _yeah, he does._

His lips are slow to leave yours, coming back for little lingering pecks before you finally break away to nuzzle his nose with your own. 

“Careful, we might scandalize your _tías._ ”

“If they didn’t want kissing, they shouldn’t have put up mistletoe.” As if in defiance, he plants another chaste kiss on your mouth. “Besides, if I know _Tía_ Lupe, she’s already asked you when we’re getting married.”

“The direct quote was, ‘you’re not getting any younger, honey, you want to give him babies.’ I think she and my grandmother are using the same playbook.”

He laughs, looking away across the crowd of his assembled relatives and family friends. “Told you they’d like you.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, his arms coming a little more tightly around you as you lean your head on his shoulder and breathe in the scent of him.

“I’m glad we came, Javi,” you finally say. “Thank you for bringing me.”

He presses a kiss into your hair, exhales a deep breath against you. “I’m glad you’re here.”

***

A cheery little tabletop tree casts multicolored puddles of light around the guest room in Chucho’s ranch house. 

It’s after midnight when the festivities come to a close and the various family members go their separate ways until Christmas lunch. You and Javier had walked with Chucho back to the house, where you promptly changed into pajamas, brushed your teeth, and flopped onto the comfortable bed.

Javier has stripped to his jeans, standing bare-chested in the doorway. “G'night, Pops,” he calls into the darkened house.

Chucho’s voice echoes back, “’Night,” and the shaft of light in the hallway shrinks and disappears with his bedroom door closing behind him.

Javier shuts your own door and you’re alone in the sanctuary of the cozy room. Of each other.

He’s at ease, maybe more than ever before. You see it in the lightness of his brow, the loose set of his arms, the fleeting freedom from the burdens of his job taking years off of him and enveloping you both in this temporary peace.

His jeans are slung low on his hips, their button carelessly undone, and you watch him walk to the dresser, envious of the dim lamplight that kisses the sculpted muscle of his back.

He takes something from the top drawer and comes to sit beside you on the bed. With no preamble but a lift of his brows, he hands you a small box wrapped in brightly colored paper.

“What’s this?” You let a coy smile hint at teasing him.

His mustache twitches with amusement. “Well, it is Christmas.”

“Christmas _Eve,_ ” you remind him in mock seriousness. “Santa hasn’t been here yet.”

“I can take it back if you want.”

You clutch the package to your chest, and he laughs.

“So open it.”

You do. And find, nestled in tissue paper, a bracelet of silver links interspersed with cabochons of moonstone and turquoise.

“Javi,” you whisper, touching the delicate stones.

“It was my mom’s. I, uh--” His jaw ticks to the side as he watches you take it out of the box. “I asked Pops for it. He liked the idea of you having it too.”

He doesn’t talk much about his mother, even to you, and despite his attempt at a casual air you feel the weight of the gesture.

“Javi, it’s beautiful. I’m honored to wear it.”

You slip the bracelet onto your wrist, let his stroking fingers admire it, revel in the spark of possessive pride that heats the fathomless depths of his eyes. The silver shines against the darkness of his hair when you slide your hands into it to kiss him. 

“I love it,” you murmur against his mouth. “I love _you._ Thank you.”

His arms come around you, warm hands slipping under your tank top. Large palms flatten over your back and drift slowly to span your ribs. He lets his thumbs graze the soft underside of your breasts, so lightly he’s barely there, but the feathery contact sends desire arrowing through you, sharp and sweet, to bloom hot at your core.

He catches your needy sigh of his name with his lips, lets it drip over his tongue like honey. Greedily plunders your mouth for more as quick hands whisk the thin fabric over your head and a shift of his weight eases you down onto the bed.

Your hand trails over the smooth, golden skin of his chest, skimming the thatch of soft hair low on his belly as he pushes himself to stand, unzipping his jeans and shucking them off. At a tap of his fingers on your hip you arch off of the mattress to let him slide your sleep shorts off, and then he’s crawling back onto the bed to sit beside you. With a touch as gentle as it is firm he draws you to him, folding long legs to coax you to his lap, your thighs bracketing his in a warm press of bare skin and your arms settling around his shoulders.

“Looked so pretty tonight.” The words are muffled against your throat, laced with small, sucking kisses. “Damn near left the party to bring you back here.”

Javier is not a man for poems or flowery declarations. But it’s when you’re together like this, when his hands and lips map your tender skin and your nails bite into the muscle of his shoulders as you tremble and shatter under his touch, that his tongue is loosened in his own language of love. 

When he finally fills you, wraps you in his strong arms and gives himself over to the refuge he finds in your body, it’s a steady stream of praises panted into your skin, rasped against your lips: _you’re so good for him, you take him so well, you’re the only one he wants, corazón, te quiero._

_I love you._

You’re his safe place, and he’s yours.

“Come with me, _querida._ ” His gritted command pierces the haze of desperate, spiraling need and your body obeys, his name a gasp in your throat as blinding pleasure replaces the blood in your veins with fire.

He surges up once, twice, muscles tensing to steel with a sound like the breath has been punched out of him.

And then he collapses, going pliant against you, the grip of his arms slackened around your waist. His heavy breaths fan hot and damp over your neck while you hold him inside you, hands tracing idle, soothing patterns on his sweat-slicked back. Your lips find his temple, his hair, and he answers with gentle nips at the soft skin of your jawline. 

Reluctantly, he separates from you, a low groan escaping him at the loss of your warmth. With the last of his energy he stretches to flick off the lamp, leaving only the muted glow of the tiny Christmas tree.

Dropping to his side on the bed, he reaches for you, tucks you close to his broad chest. His smile is lazy, sleepy-eyed with perfect relaxation as he sweeps stray strands of hair away from your face to press a kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll give you your other present in the morning,” you tease, still a little breathless.

A soft huff of laughter, and another brush of his lips, just above your brow. “Baby, I’ve got everything I need right here.”

You’re almost floating, drowsy and light, a mirror of Javier’s contentment. 

He’s closed his eyes, dark lashes resting on his cheeks and the creases in his forehead smoothed as his fingers stroke gently over your hair.

“ _Querida,_ ” he murmurs. 

You hum in answer, slipping a foot between his.

“Maybe _Tîa_ Lupe’s got the right idea.”

If you thought you couldn’t be more in love, he’s proven you wrong. 

“Maybe we should talk about it in the morning,” you whisper through a giddy smile.

The shadow of a dimple darkens his cheek with his minute nod.

You kiss his neck, nuzzling into the steady thrum of his pulse, the metronome that keeps the time of your own heart.

“Merry Christmas, Javi.”


End file.
